


Patterns and Puzzles

by Cocohorse



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Late Night Conversations, can be read as platonic or nah, pluffie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Scared, Miss Trinket?"<br/>"Shut it, Heavensbee."</p><p>After a long, tiresome day, Plutarch tries to get some peace and quiet. Effie has the same idea. Unfortunately, the two of them have never been the closest of friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patterns and Puzzles

**Author's Note:**

> No one asked for this fic, but I still wrote it, oops. I love Plutarch Heavensbee too much to not write anything about him, and I really liked his and Effie's interaction in the "cave dwellers" scene in Mockingjay Pt1. I don't ship them, and I tried to write this as platonically as I could, but the end result of this showed I can't write non-romo fics for my life lmao. Note: I read the books ages ago, so I barely remember anything. Going off of the movies for this fic, so I apologize for mistakes and the extreme OOC-ness.

Alone in the dining hall, he could afford to take some time for himself. It was a little over half past midnight, and normally, everyone was supposed to be in their rooms for the night. But being the important person he was, Plutarch could easily manage to slip away at any hour without raising any more than a curious brow. There were moments when he hated being important, but sometimes, being important gave him freedom to...  _not_  be important.

The dining hall, with all its tables and chairs, was empty and dark. The only light was from the little, low, floor-level vents that lit the ground in intervals. He sat himself down at a random table in the middle of the room and flipped open a book. Upon its opening, the pages of the book itself began to glow from a booklight built into the inside of the cover. With a tired sigh, Plutarch started to read.

He didn't do this often, but he wished he did. It was a nice change in tone from all the grueling business he had to go through everyday. Day in and day out, he had to work on organizing and planning the revolution. When did he ever have time for himself except in the middle of the night? Sometimes even then he was still wide awake, busying away at last-minute projects and propos. Never had he imagined, when he was younger, that he would be living a life like this. But it was the life he was stuck with, and what else could he do beside work?

This was why Plutarch loved to read.  
  
Sitting there alone in the dark room, he read, sometimes flipping back a page or two to regather his thoughts if he caught himself slipping. This happened a lot to him. Many times he stopped and used his pencil to write in something in the margins of the book. Whenever he was writing, he often mouthed the words to himself as they appeared on the page. Plutarch did all of these things automatically. He didn't know how long he sat there now doing this, but it felt like a while until he heard a door at one end of the hall creak open.  
  
Plutarch glanced up from the book and shut it closed quickly. He was ready to give an explanation for himself and, more realistically, to receive an explanation for this disturbance at this hour in the night. Because the door was slightly open, light from the hallway outside the room shined in. He squinted his eyes, recognizing Effie standing in the doorway. What stood out first was her bandana-wrapped bun of hair.  
  
She scanned the room and suddenly saw him sitting there a moment after he saw her. She visibly froze in her tracks.  
  
"Miss Trinket." Plutarch's heavy voice sounded casual and steady. There was no need for him to speak loud in the empty room. He raised his head a little to meet her eyes.  
  
Effie's eyes had been wide open in surprise, but they quickly narrowed at him scornfully. It took a moment before she responded, her voice short and clipped. "Heavensbee."  
  
He smiled lightly, unfazed by her apparent disdain. "Why are you down here, Effie, in the middle of the night?" he asked, words measured and cool.  
  
Effie did not return his smile. Instead, she looked around the empty room, choosing not to reply to his question immediately. "Same reason as you, I presume," she said pointedly at him, making sure he picked up on her tone. "Can't sleep. The devil-children next-door to me will not shut up. I went down here thinking there would be peace and quiet. Apparently, I was wrong." Finally, she smiled back at him.  
  
"You don't need to hate me, you know," said Plutarch. The words could have sounded rough from anybody else, but spoken by him, there was no evidence of any hard feelings at all.  
  
What he said caught her off guard. "I know." A stilted defense.  
  
Plutarch used the end of his pencil to tap the metal table. "Sit with me, Miss Trinket," he said plainly, his voice lower than before. He seemed quietly welcoming of her company and presence. "If you would like to, of course."

It was less of a command and more of an inquiry, and Effie could sense that. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, a hand grasping onto the handle still. She clearly looked ready to abandon him, but it was somewhat wrong to leave and then pretend like they never met each other in the dining hall at almost one in the morning. Effie frowned slightly at him. "Why? What are you doing here?" she questioned suspiciously.  
  
Plutarch shot a glance down at his book. "I'm reading," he replied, blinking back up at her. With a plain gray t-shirt tucked into a pair of similar gray sweatpants, she looked just like anyone else in Thirteen. Well, almost, of course. No one else had the same dominating confidence she had, especially when she was in the same ordeal as the rest of them. It was always something he had to admit that he respected.  
  
"Reading, really?" Effie glared at him, exasperated. "There is a revolution to be running, is there not?"  
  
Plutarch opened his book, and it started to glow again. Eyes meeting the pages, he looked faintly amused. "So you've finally noticed," he mused, reading as he spoke.  
  
He heard the door close shut, followed by the sound of highheels clicking toward him. He murmured a proper hello as Effie planted herself in the chair beside him with a sigh. Effie said nothing to him, but he could tell she was watching him as he continued on reading. He didn't show any signs of himself being bothered, though. He wasn't. In fact, he felt a bit more relaxed and at ease with another person beside him in the quietness and darkness of the empty room. It wasn't just any person, really -- it was Effie. They never really had a connection outside forced formalities, but she was his only real reminder of his old life before he became truly involved in the revolution. Just like him, she had been born and raised and the Capitol her entire life, and now they were here. How often did that thought cross her mind? He couldn't be the only one who thought about it.  
  
It still didn't explain why she harbored a grudge against him, though. It was one thing for her to pinpoint her overall frustration on someone, but they had worked together too long for this. Maybe that was how she was, he decided. He knew her. He knew the type of person she was. People were just made up of different patterns of the same things. Having been a head gamemaker, Plutarch knew how to look for patterns and how to piece them together to create a single large puzzle. The games were puzzles. People were puzzles. Books were puzzles, too, made up of different patterns of letters and words.

"What are you writing?" asked Effie, interrupting his thoughts. She was looking at his pencil scratches in the margins of his book. Any animosity in her voice had left already.

Plutarch paused from his reading to respond. "My thoughts, mostly," he answered, still looking down at his book. "Sometimes I get an idea and I write it down. Sometimes it's something to do with my work, and sometimes it's something to do with the book. Just whatever comes to me, really. Helps keep my mind exercised. There's not much a head gamemaker can do down here."

"Not much here for a designer, either,” huffed Effie in mutual agreement. She sat back in her chair, tucking the loose strands of her hair back.

"Well," he said in finality, "We have the revolution to worry about, anyway."

"Don't you think I know that?" Effie stared at him stiffly. "Dressing your Mockingjay is _not_ the easiest thing in the world, thank you very much."

" _My_ Mockingjay?" Plutarch stopped. “You’re in this with us, Effie. Remember that.”

"Obviously, she alone did not want to be the revolution's symbol," shot back Effie. "It’s not like I want to be here, either! You and Coin have us locked here like _animals_ against our own will."

"For the last time, Miss Trinket," growled Plutarch, "You are not a prisoner here. Nor is Katniss, either. Need I remind you that without us, you'd be dead? Go ahead. President Snow would have had you all executed by now."

"You would be dead, too!" exclaimed Effie angrily, but the sudden ferocity of the normally easy-going man probably startled her. "Head gamemaker turned rebel leader, of all things, Heavensbee!"

Plutarch gave a long sigh, easily defeated. Thoughts of his work came rushing back to him already. He did not want to dwell in thousands of thoughts that were incomprehensible in the middle of the night. But, god, it _was_ the middle of the night. He was in the middle of the night with someone who he felt he had a sort of _connection_ with, but if only he could grab a hold of it --

Plutarch turned his head to look at Effie, and he stared at her for a second, trying to collect his thoughts. "I used to miss the Capitol," he said, "but not anymore. Of course I didn't miss the bad parts of it. The entire place was atrocious, really. But it was the only place I've known." He hesitated, unsure why he was sharing this out of the blue. But it made him feel somewhat better somehow. "You know that," he added.

Effie appeared as surprised as he was at himself. He was probably one of the biggest figures in Panem's history by now -- what with his role as head gamemaker of the 75th Hunger Games, his betrayal to Snow, and his leadership in the revolution. Why was he even telling her this? She only nodded in reply to him, visibly more subdued now.

Hell, it was past midnight. Who cared?

"What are you reading, Plutarch?" she asked him, leaning slightly forward to look at his book.

Plutarch, relieved to move on to a different subject, flipped the book over to reveal its cover. "I'm reading _1984_ , by George Orwell." He seemed a bit proud and even embarrassed just saying this. He went on to try to offer a helpful explanation. "It was written hundreds of years ago. It’s about a man who works for a totalitarian government, but he secretly hates it and dreams to overthrow it. Sound familiar?"

Effie's face cringed in distaste. "All too well," she muttered, but she looked a little amused at the similar comparison. But her expression changed to shock suddenly. "Wait -- how do you even _have_ that book?” she started. “Books like that shouldn't even exist!" There was a mixture of curiosity and horror -- mostly horror -- instantly shadowing her face.

Plutarch quickly made a motion to quiet her. In a lowered voice, he said, "I worked for the government, right? I didn't just bring back a couple victors with me here."

"Plutarch!" Effie's whisper rose quickly as her fright mounted. "Does Coin know? She'll kill you!"

"Effie, she won't kill me," he intervened, speaking in a falsely-reassuring voice. "She knows about _this_ book, anyway." He rose his eyebrows playfully and pretended to return to his reading.

Effie caught on immediately. "Do you have _more_ books? Ones she doesn't even know?" she questioned.

Plutarch turned the page.

Now she was more angry than horrified. "They didn't ven allow me to bring more than _foundation_ makeup in!" she snapped. "And you managed to smuggle in a whole library of useless books here! I cannot _believe_ you!"

"They're not useless," mumbled Plutarch. Clearing his throat, he carefully added, "Don't tell Alma, alright? I'll let you borrow them if you want. I have twelve different books."

" _Twelve?_ Why on earth are they so important that you would have _twelve?_ " Effie could not wrap her head around it. Perhaps nobody did anymore. Even he had little clue why he was doing any of this.

"They're books. Books are important," defended Plutarch flatly. The clever designer of death games could not even defend books. Personally, he blamed himself for staying up so late. Shaking his head, he asked her, "Don't you like reading?"

Effie grimaced. "I haven't read in a long time,” she admitted. “I have other things to do. Productive things. Reading is just a distraction."

"I guess so," he concurred. "I don't read a lot, either, but I would like to. Maybe that's why I like to read. Distractions. I need distractions and puzzles. That's the type of person I am. I find problems that interest me, and I try to fix it. That's really why I'm here in Thirteen, here in the midst of a revolution." He stopped and flashed a sheepish smile at her. "Too pretentious, Miss Trinket?"

"Oh, obviously _I_ would know," sighed Effie, finally deciding to play along with the gamemaker. But she was looking at him differently now. There was a hint of awe in her voice.

“ _Oh, obviously I would know,_ ” mimicked Plutarch in the most ridiculous Capitol accent he could manage. He burst out into a laugh in the quiet room.

“Where did that come from?” Even if she was a little amused, Effie still managed to look offended. “And to think I believed you were better behaved than Haymitch! We’re from the Capitol, Plutarch!”

Though still slightly smiling, Plutarch quieted down. “I apologize, Effie,” he said honestly. He rubbed his chin slowly and let out a groan. “It’s just that it’s late, and, god, I’m tired. It’s been a long day, really. I think it’s making me go crazy. Aren’t you tired?”

“Only a little,” she replied with a sniff. “Instead of reading,” she added, shooting a glare at him, “why did you not just sleep if you’re so tired?”

He sighed and shrugged. “I just wanted to get out of there,” he said simply. “And I wanted to _read_.” He motioned toward his book.

“Oh,” said Effie. “Well, go ahead. I’m not stopping you. I only came here to sit, really.”

Plutarch refocused on his book. For a while, they both sat there in silence, the only sounds coming from the overhead ACs and the flipping of his pages. He started to get back into his book, and at a very interesting part in the middle, he picked up his pencil and started making notes along the margins of the page he was on. He only got a sentence down before he noticed Effie hovering close to him.

“Making notes about next week's propos,” he explained. He went on writing until he finished, and then he continued to read.

Still, she was looking at his book. After turning a couple pages, he paused and glanced over to her. “Do you want to read?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I’m fine. I was just looking.”

He raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “It’s okay if you want to. I can show you my other books, if you're interested.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she repeated. She paused. “Thank you, though.”

For the first time between the two of them, it was now Plutarch who looked surprised. He recovered quickly, though. "That's it," he muttered gruffly. Plutarch dog-eared the page that the book was currently open on and he flipped to the front of the book.

“Plutarch? What are you doing?” Effie looked on, confused.

"I'm gonna read you some of this. No excuses. Get comfortable." A funny smile flashed across his face.

Effie started to protest. "No, no, you don't have to do this--"

Plutarch waved her silent and gave her an apologetic smile. "Just a few minutes, okay?" he promised. "We can stop whenever you get tired."

Effie seemed like she was holding back another argument, but for now, she let it go. "Oh, alright," she sighed. "You owe me, Heavensbee."

He smiled in return and began reading out loud.

" _It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen..._ "

* * *

“It’s too dark in here. Turn the light back on,” demanded Effie at once, shuddering involuntarily.

“Scared, Miss Trinket?” he teased, purposely deepening his voice so that it resounded in the darkness of the room.

“Shut it, Heavensbee,” she barked at him, but he could easily tell that she was using her anger to disguise the fear in her voice. He felt her edge closer to him.

After an hour of reading aloud to her, Plutarch had become restless. It was two in the morning, and he was feeling more and more loopy and reckless. Just now he had shut off the book just to see her reaction. In all honesty, he had never messed around this much in so long, but it was a great feeling.

In between quick reading breaks, he had spilled out random thoughts on his mind to Effie. He had told her about a quote he had always liked, a funny high school memory, and even a random old regret. He found himself grateful when she took the time to listen to his ramblings and to join in with her own thoughts. Basically, he found himself enjoying her company. Maybe it was just because he was in some sort of sleepy stupor, but _this_ was the connection he knew there had always been between him and her. It had just been hidden the entire time they knew each other, and it just took a random midnight meeting for them to find it.

“It’s not even that dark,” he pointed out lightly, giving her a little nudge with his shoulder. The tiny floor lights were on, so he couldn’t see why she was so scared. In fact, it seemed like she should have been more afraid of him than of the darkness. He had been head gamemaker, for crying out loud.

“I can barely even see your stupid face!” she hissed. She started to retract away from him, but she thought better of it and reluctantly let herself be pressed against his shoulder.

Plutarch sighed, casting a knowing look at her beside him. He could only see her eyes shining at him in the darkness. “You can always leave,” he suggested.

“ _Plutarch!_ ”

“Alright, alright." He chuckled and placed the book back on the table. “Now would you let me read in peace?”

Creaking. He suddenly heard creaking.

"What was that?" whispered Effie, immediately pressing closer to him in alarm.

Plutarch almost laughed out loud. "Maybe it's President Coin spying on us." He grinned, trying to imagine the silver-haired woman hovering around the dining hall at two in the morning.

"Not funny. Now she's really gonna kill you."

Before Plutarch could make a clever response, they heard the creaking again, but this time it was much louder.

“Give me your book!” cried Effie, desperately reaching over him. He let her take it and rip it open. She waved the glowing book around in the air, trying to find the source of the noise.

“Be careful with it!” he muttered quickly, ducking his head down. He drew away from her and stood up, facing the door. It was slightly open, and he went over to investigate, maneuvering carefully through the darkness of the room. When he arrived at the door, he peeked outside. The hallway was completely empty and silent. Frowning, he turned around to face Effie, who was standing in the middle of the room with the glowing book clutched to her chest. "Probably air from the ACs," he said, closing the door.

By the look on her face, Effie did not seem convinced at all, but she relaxed a little when he returned back to her.

He sat back down beside her and laid his head on the table. He looked up at her and yawned. "God, what the hell happened here?" he sighed, his voice a long, tired rumble.

Effie propped her head up with an arm, and she frowned down at him. "You really aren't a night person, Heavensbee. You're not yourself. Is this what you're like when you're drunk?"

He shut his eyes, but still kept talking. "You wouldn't know," he mumbled under his breath. "We barely even talked before this."

"Touché," she murmured.

And they stayed like that for a long time. It was comforting just knowing the other was there. Nothing else really seemed to exist at two in the morning. There were no worries or responsibilities that the world could demand from them at that hour.

Plutarch barely felt himself slipping away. The tabletop was smooth, the book was glowing softly, and the room was dark and quiet. The world was asleep, and Effie was warm.

* * *

"Wake up! Wake up!"

Plutarch jerked awake to see Effie standing over him and shaking him. "What time is it?" he gasped, dragging his head up. Fear suddenly coursed through his body, shocking him to his feet. He couldn't afford to fall asleep here, especially with her. How would he ever explain himself? Everyone would talk!

"It's only three," she answered quickly. Her voice rose in panic. "There's something in here, though! I felt something touch my leg!"

"What am I supposed to do about it?" His relief was replaced with annoyance. "It's probably only a rat, anyways."

"Rats! Here, in Thirteen?" Effie shook. "That is scary and disgusting, but not surprising."

Plutarch nearly jumped when he felt his leg being brushed. He quickly looked down and saw what it was, and it was much, much bigger than a rat, but it was not at all scary as one. Maybe a little disgusting, though.

Plutarch bent down and carefully lifted it up, shooting a grin at Effie. "Hey, it's not a rat."

Effie stared in realization. "Are you sure?"

"Definitely," he laughed. There was a cat dangling from his hands. Buttercup meowed and started to struggle, so Plutarch paused and turned to Effie more seriously. "Look." His voice was firm. "We should be heading back to our own rooms now. It's best if we go separately. I can drop the cat off at Katniss' room."

She opened her mouth to say something else, but she settled on a murmur of firm agreement.

Plutarch softened a little, remembering himself. "But it was a great night. Thank you."

Effie nodded. "Don't mention it."

"Whenever you want to pick up from where we left off, just let me know. The book, of course." With his arms full of the cat, he motioned his head toward the door. "You go ahead first. Goodnight."

"Of course. Goodnight." Effie turned around to leave, but as if something had just occurred to her, she stopped to look back at him. "You know," she said in her quiet, light voice, "I think you can figure out this puzzle. The revolution and all."

"Really?" He tilted his head slightly to the side in wonder. Apparently, they barely knew each other until now. "I sure hope so. Maybe when I've finished all of this, I'll write something." Plutarch gave a short, tired laugh at himself. "With luck, maybe it won't end up like _1984_."

Effie frowned, looking from the cat to the man. "Wait, what happens, Heavensbee?"

Buttercup began to purr into his chest. Plutarch smiled. "Just read it and find out. Goodnight, Miss Trinket."


End file.
